Calling

by Velma


It's not like he meant for it to happen. It's not like Chris wanted to have a thing for Nick Fucking Carter. It's not like he woke up some nights from dreams forgotten as soon as he opened his eyes, the taste of Nick still as fresh in his mouth as if it was Philadelphia in February. Philadelphia in February and Nick Fucking Carter pressing him into the back of a bathroom stall, mouth hot on his.

It's not like that at all. Except that it is.

Chris sighed, rolled over in his big ass empty bed, and tried to forget. It pissed him off, that it was months later and the winter was gone, surrendered to summer, and Carter - fucking Carter - was still under his skin.

He didn't tell anyone about it - it's not like anyone would really believe that he'd bagged Nick Carter, or Nick Carter had bagged him, or however it had worked. The weekend was a blur, really, and even though Justin had been there, he'd been with Britney, and with ballers. As usual in such situations, Chris was thrust back to the periphery, only on the very edge of Justin's awareness.

So when Nick slid up behind him at Puffy's party, drinks in hand, and Chris saw a familiar glint in his eye, he went. Served Timberlake right, him disappearing with Carter.

Not that Justin noticed.

And it had been a good weekend, fun. The sex was incredible, and hot, and Nick had this thing he did with his hips that pretty much rendered all speech impossible. Which was good, because they didn't talk a lot.

Chris had tried once, rolled over and poked Nick in the chest, murmuring, "So, Carter, you do this often? Pick up aging pop stars? Have your wild way with them?"

Nick had smiled, wide and slow, and straddled Chris, and woah, hot damn, apparently his hips weren't the only lethal weapon he was packing, because Jesus the mouth on that kid and yeah, conversation was pretty much overrated.

Then the weekend was over, and Nick left like it had been no big deal, just two bodies finding each other to stay warm, and maybe that was right, maybe that was it. Nothing more.

Except it was months later, and fucking summer in Orlando, and Chris was freezing.

It's not like Chris could just call Nick up. And with AJ gone from the neighborhood, it's not like he could stalk Nick over the fence or anything and accidentally run into him. So when Johnny said Aaron was booked for Challenge, Chris found his pulse speeding just a little. Where there was Aaron, there was Nick. For a whole long weekend.

Aaron cancelled though, at the last minute, and Chris tried to hide his disappointment, tried to mask it behind his usual sharp barbs, but he just came off bitter. He knew it, and he hated himself for it.

It was during a break in the skills challenge that Johnny nudged him, passed him a message. "I forgot," Johnny said, "Aaron's people left that number when they called. Said it's Nick's. He has a jersey of yours or something."

Chris folded the message into even, careful squares, and stuck it down inside his sock. He didn't want to lose it. He was pretty proud of himself for waiting until most of the events were over before he snuck away to call.

"Carter," a voice said, and Chris was surprised at the little twinge he felt in his gut at the sound.

"Hey, Nick. It's Chris. Uh, Kirkpatrick." Christ, was he stammering? From the sound of Nick's soft laughter, Chris guessed he was. Almost thirty-one, and as suave as a twelve-year old. And probably far less cute. Great. "Johnny told me I should call you. So, yeah. With the calling." He pulled the phone away from his mouth for a moment, thumping his head against the wall. He had skills. He did. Mad skills. He beat people off with a stick. He sighed, put the phone back to his ear. Who was he kidding?

Nick was still chuckling, but he stopped soon enough. "Sorry about Aaron missing the game. Bummer I didn't get the chance to watch Timberlake wipe the court with your ass."

"Timberlake doesn't go anywhere near my ass," Chris muttered. "Carter, man. I've got game. I'm a baller. I'm terror on the court." Nick was laughing harder this time. Had Chris actually thought for a moment that sound was attractive?

"Are you forgetting I was in Philly with you? Your smoothest move was tackling me on the court, Chris."

Chris smirked. "Ah, foreplay."

"Yeah," Nick said, and was Chris imagining it or did he sound kind of wistful? "What are you up to, after everything's done this weekend?"

"Oh, you know, my services are in high demand," Chris said, closely examining some peeling paint on the wall in front of him. "Advising clothing designers on how best not to capture the teen market and doing extensive testing on the latest Lazyboy recliners." He was going for humor, but he could hear the raw edge to his voice, loathed it, because Nick was too smart not to pick up on it. Chris suspected he'd had too much personal experience.

Nick's voice got softer, if possible. "I've got a place rented, right on the beach. You should come down when you're done. Hang for a bit. I'll show you the boat. I know you have a thing for speed, Kirkpatrick. It's right up your alley."

Chris tried to think of a reason to say no, tried to stall a bit before saying yes at least, so he didn't seem too desperate. He heard Nick breathing on the other end, wondered how it could be so familiar, and told him he'd been down mid-week.

"Why now, Carter?" he asked. "It's been months. You never called."

"Neither did you," Nick said. "I'm around, you're around. I thought maybe we could hang around together. Stop thinking so hard."

"Right," Chris said, "Okay, yeah. So I'll be down when this is all over then. Oh, uh. I should warn you. I'm sporting a mohawk now, Nicky. I don't want to be getting all freaky with you and have you call me Kevin or anything. So if there are any latent issues there, warn a guy, okay?"

He had to pull the phone away from his ear. Carter could be really fucking loud when he wanted to be. "Jesus Christ, Chris," Nick howled. "Item the first, he's got a few feet on you, and item the second, you're a hell of a lot mouthier. I don't think there'll be a problem."

"Inches, you ass. He's got me by an inch or two." Chris tried to sound put out, but he was smiling when he hung up the phone. He was still smiling when he hit the court the next day for the game. His face hurt.

He sort of forgot to smile when he pulled up to the beach house and Nick came out, tanned and rested and looking like something out of a wet dream. Which, actually. He sort of was. Chris thought telling him that might be a little much just yet.

Apparently Nick wasn't feeling very shy, though, because Chris hadn't done much more than drop his bags inside the front door when he felt arms around his waist, turning him, and lips against his. 'There's that mouth again,' he thought, before he wrapped his arms around Nick and stopped thinking at all.

It was weird, how comfortable things were. They fell into a routine pretty early. Chris was always up before Nick, liked watching him sleep, tried not to think about how Justin never let him. But Nick would blink awake and smile sleepily in his general direction, then close his eyes and go back to sleep. He'd eventually get up and work out, and Chris would grab a magazine and follow, watching him, mostly, occasionally offering to oil him up so he'd shine like the guys they saw on ESPN2 late at night. It was pretty rare that Nick let him, and Chris suspected he was only indulging him.

Nick's album was done, but he still puttered around in the studio some, and he let Chris play with a few of the tracks, just for fun. Chris liked the stuff, and told Nick so. It was decent, a solid first effort. It wasn't going to be as good as Justin's, he knew, but he'd never tell Nick that. He didn't have to.

"I'm not him, Chris," Nick said one day, as Chris fiddled with some controls. Chris jerked his head up, guilty. "I know I'm not. It's not about that, either. This album's not about Backstreet. It's not about boybands. And it's sure as hell not about trying to one up Justin Timberlake. It stopped being a competition a long time ago." He looked at Chris levelly. "Didn't it?"

Chris grumbled a bit about freakishly perceptive overgrown man-children and went out to sun himself.

He got burned.

It was a couple weeks. A couple weeks of sun, and food, and drinking, and laughing, and the speedboats, which Chris really did like. A couple of weeks with Nick Carter, who Chris liked. A lot.

He tried not to think about the fact that it was going to end. Nick had obligations. A record to promote, a life to get back to, and Chris didn't know what that meant for him. He was scared to ask.

What he did know was that it was summer in Florida, and he was finally feeling it.

He was downright sweaty, in fact, as he lay sprawled across Nick, the windows open and the ceiling fan circling above. He mouthed his way lazily along Nick's chest, smiling against the skin when Nick's hand came up to card through his mohawk.

"I have to go," Nick said. "I've stayed down here longer than I planned as it is."

Chris froze, felt his heartbeat skyrocket, and swore softly. He was bad enough at lying as it was without his body betraying him.

"Chris," Nick said. "Chris, come on. Stop that. Dude. Don't act like I insulted your mother or something. I didn't say I wanted you to fall off the face of the planet. I have a job to do, I have to go do it."

"Right," Chris said, rolling off him and laying on his side, back to Nick. He pulled at the blankets, tugging them up.

Nick sighed, and Chris could feel the weight of his gaze on his back. "I'm not a rocket scientist. I've never claimed to be. But I've seen firsthand what happens to people who get hurt and don't let themselves heal. You can't be miserable all the time, Chris. You can't, or it'll kill you." Chris felt Nick's hand on his shoulder, and tensed. "I'm sorry you got hurt. But I didn't do it. I said it before. I'm through competing."

Chris felt the bed shift as Nick got up, but he didn't move, didn't register anything. He heard Nick throwing things together behind him, getting dressed. Then Nick was behind him again, lips soft on his cheek. "You can choose to be happy, Chris. You don't even have to settle." The familiar weight was gone again, and all Chris was left with was "you know how to find me."

He pulled the covers up over his head.

Chris kind of thought Nick would call. Hoped for it, but, ultimately, he wasn't surprised when it didn't come. He moped around the house and annoyed the hell out of his mother and his sisters and he knew it was bad when even his nephews didn't want to hang out with him.

What sucked was that Nick was right. He was pretty damn close to becoming one of those morose, bitter old men with dead eyes that used to sit at the bar down the street from their place in Clarion. He was a Pennsylvania boy out of place in Florida. He was accustomed to the cold. He wasn't sure he was suited for the heat.

He saw Nick on Access Hollywood one night, smiling and flirting with Nancy O'Dell, and Chris realized what an idiot he was. Nick Carter wanted him - him - and he was wasting his chance away pining over something that was finished before it could ever really begin. Choose to be happy, Nick had said. Nick who was at times frighteningly wise for a twenty-two year old.

Chris missed him. Not just the sex, although, yeah, parts of Chris missed that a lot, but his laughter and the way his eyes kind of folded at the corners when he smiled and the random conversations they had at two in the morning and the way that Nick's body felt spooned up behind him at night, solid and big and warm.

Warm.

He picked up the phone and dialed.

"Hey," Nick said, "I was wondering if I'd hear from you."

"I'm an asshole," Chris said. "I have a lousy track record and a string of exes who will attest to my inability to do anything lasting that doesn't involve those other four freaks I spend so much time with..."

"Chris..."

"The thing is, Carter, you sort of know all that already. And you don't seem to be scared of it. Or me. Which is nothing short of a miracle..."

"Chris..."

"And it's August, Nick. Fucking August, and the summer's almost gone and I've spent all but a couple weeks of it sulking around this stupid house when I should be on a beach somewhere, sipping margaritas while a pretty beach bunny rubs lotion on my chest. And while I would never dare to call you pretty, you are not sore on the eyes and would be a more than acceptable alternative..."

"Kirkpatrick!"

Chris paused. "Yeah?"

"I'm in L.A. Get out here. If you're lucky, I might pick up that coconut stuff you like so much."

"I think," Chris said, "I might be in love, Carter. It's Hawaiian Tropic, in case you forgot. Not the sunscreen. The lotion, Nick. Lo-tion."

"Yeah, yeah," and Nick's smile was evident in his voice, contagious, because Chris was smiling, too. "I should warn you, though. It's really hot out here. Heat wave or something. Be prepared."

"No problem," Chris said. "I'm from Orlando, remember? I can stand a little heat."


-fin-

 

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